


In a Red Sea - And Other Stories

by Blue_Daddys_Girl



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, Complete, Crime Scenes, Dialogue Heavy, Dreams and Nightmares, F/F, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Hannigram - Freeform, M/M, Mind Palace, Murderous Pining, Other, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Short One Shot, Stalking, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:28:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 9,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27385717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Daddys_Girl/pseuds/Blue_Daddys_Girl
Summary: Completed collection of tiny one shots made for the November 'Write your Melody' prompt. First steps in the Hannibal fandom. All continuity is from me having a lark. Chapters are in no discernable order otherwise. People are sometimes alive at some events when they weren't in the show, etc. This is all about *mood* my friends.1- Fanfare (ch.5) | 2- Dissonance (ch.4) | 3- Forte (ch.6) | 4- Music to my ears | 5- Ostinato | 6- Flat | 7- Toot one's own horn | 8- Tone Deaf | 9- Allegro | 10- Crescendo | 11- Sing a different tune | 12- Bridge | 13- Unison | 14- World's smallest violin | 15- Song and dance | 16- Harmony | 17th- Shuffle | 18th- The jig is up | 19th- Instrumental | 20th- Nocturne | 21st- Call and response | 22nd- Sharp | 23rd- Face the music | 24th- A Capella | 25th- Obbligato | 26th- Strike a chord | 27th- Mute | 28th- Pianissimo | 29th- End on a high note | 30th- Encore
Relationships: Alana Bloom & Hannibal Lecter, Dr. Frederick Chilton & Hannibal Lecter, Hannibal Lecter & Mischa Lecter, Jack Crawford & Hannibal Lecter, Jimmy Price & Brian Zeller, Will Graham & Beverly Katz, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 79
Kudos: 74





	1. In A Red Sea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [justheretoreadhannibalfics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justheretoreadhannibalfics/gifts).



November 4th ~ _Music to my ears_

* * *

'This is... Lord, this is the sort of thing that sometimes makes me doubt my career choices.'

'Take heart, Jack, it is also proof that you are very much needed in this world.'

Jack Crawford turns a weary but grateful eye towards Dr Lecter.

'This is real carnage,' Will Graham says, his own eyes wild and jumping about the crime scene, from limb to spray, to scattered gore, taking everything in, swaying a little on his feet in the middle of it all. 'It's new for him. _Again_. It's like he's constantly evolving.'

Hannibal steps in closer. He tries his hardest to project a sense of stoicism, of solidity. To be a pillar for Will to lean on, an anchor in this blood red sea. 

'What do you see?' Jack asks, and Hannibal leans in, curious. He too, would really like to know what Will _sees_. 

'It's like a painting. Everything is so carefully laid out. Like there was no emotion within the act of killing itself, all the passion went into the... arrangement. All the red on the walls... It's all _painted_. A macabre masterpiece. It's signed, but go figure who it's dedicated to.'

'Yes, well, that's our next step.' Jack mutters, before turning on his heels and leaving the room, shoulders hunched.

Hannibal smiles faintly. What sweet compliments pour forth from Will. The man is so perceptive, and only a step away from understanding this is all for him. He turns his blue eyes to Hannibal, dark under his curls, almost feverish.

'Isn't it wrong, Dr. Lecter, that I wish the reaper would paint more pictures for us?'

'What do you mean?' Hannibal asks, stepping over a sawn off arm to stand by Will. 'You wish he would address his work to you?'

'If it meant I could understand him better... Maybe.'

'I suspect that would be music to his ears.'

'Why? No good could come of me understanding him.'

'Yet this reaper wants your attention, Will. Red is the colour of passion and love.'

'And anger, danger... and well, the colour of blood,' Will says, deadpan. 

All Hannibal can do is smile, and try very hard for it to seem sympathetic.

'Two sides of the same coin, I'm afraid.'


	2. A Walk In The Autumn Woods

November 5th ~ _Ostinato_

_[A repeated musical phrase or rhythm]_

* * *

'Winston!' Will calls out, wincing at the stab of pain in his side. 

'Will, please. The dog is fine, but you aren't–'

'He's going too far... Winston isn't used to the pack yet and I–'

'Winston is fine, but _you aren't_ ,' Hannibal repeats, his hand heavier on Will's shoulder. 

And of course he is right. Wherever Winston runs, he'll be doing better than Will and his half-healed gunshot wounds. He's wheezing, sweat clammy against his skin. Hannibal is looking at him with open worry. 

'Here,' he says, taking him by the arm and guiding him to a fallen tree, half sunk into the mushy autumn ground and its layers of rotting leaves. Hannibal cleans up a spot and sits him down, squatting in front of him now to adjust his scarf. Will opens his mouth to protest, but Hannibal cuts him off.

'I feel guilty,' the man says, for once wearing much of his feelings on his face, 'this was my idea, yet it is clearly too soon for you to walk this far. I am afraid I might have overtaxed you.'

Will chuckles. Dr. Lecter is particularly dotting today. It is one of his warm days. He doesn't know what brings them on, what takes them away, but he's glad for it just now. 

'It's not your fault,' he protests, words turning into white ghosts in the chill air. 

'I wonder,' Hannibal says, sitting himself, a strong hand pulling Will to lean against him, not brooking resistance. 'This was my idea...'


	3. A Mind of Brittle Eggshell

November 6th ~ _Flat_

_[Lower in pitch - Smooth and even - Lacking interest or emotion]_

* * *

'Alana. What a pleasant surprise. Please, come in.'

'Thank you, Hannibal. It has been a while, hasn't it?'

'Indeed. Make yourself comfortable,' he says, taking her coat from her. 'To what do I owe the pleasure?'

Alana walks past the grey chaise lounge and settles herself into one of the leather chairs. It seems to swallow her. She sits herself closer to its edge, unnerved. 

'It's about Will,' she says.

'I must thank you again for recommending me to Jack. He has a most unique mind, our Will.'

'He certainly does,' Alana agrees, watching Hannibal settle down in the chair across from hers. Unlike her, he leans into its embrace, looking back with hooded eyes and a pleasant smile.

'He was doing better for a while,' she goes on, 'now... Is he still coming to your appointments regularly?'

'He does, yes. He even visits me outside of our agreed upon sessions. He knows he is welcome here whenever he feels the need to talk to me. After all, his work for the FBI presents challenges that can hardly be fitted to a regular schedule.' 

'I see. Have you noticed a decline in his mental state recently? I don't know what he shows you, what he says to you, but seeing him at quantico... It has become very obvious that he's not doing well.'

Hannibal cocks his head, smile unwavering.

'We've been working through some tough topics. Topics I am not at liberty to disclose to you, Alana. Yes, Will has a lot of strong emotions to work through. He's good at keeping things bottled up. Maybe what you are seeing is the aftermath of opening one such bottle, during our sessions. But he is doing fine, I assure you. He is able to work, if that is worrying Jack. He simply needs time to come to terms with... What we discuss.' 

His voice is smooth and even, its pitch low. But there is a deadness of emotions there, Alana notices. A lack of worry or concern, a lack of interest, almost. As if they were talking about some new regulation that would barely affect their work.   
The smile is still there, fixed, polite.  
She feels a chill. For a moment she wonders if she was wrong, in recommending him. But then again, Will does have a _unique_ mind, fragile, abstruse, and she might have misjudged him, more than Hannibal.


	4. Silk Between My Fingers

November 2nd ~ Dissonance

_[Lack of harmony among two or more musical notes]_

* * *

'Really, Will? Plain green is what you want to go for?'

Will frowns at Beverly, confused. 

'What's wrong with that? It's silk, it's good quality.'

'The material isn't the problem. It's just... I mean have you ever seen Hannibal wear anything plain, ever?'

'He has white shirts.'

'No Will, even his white shirts are chequered in some other shade of white. The man's clothes are fractals all the way down.'

'Perfect, an unadorned tie to go with his fancy suits and shirts.'

'But green?'

He turns to Beverly, mouth agape, completely lost now. 

'Green is no-go.'

'Why?!'

She shrugs, plucks a maroon tie off the rack to add to her collection. 

'He doesn't wear green, to begin with. It doesn't really suit him.'

'What's that supposed to mean? He's got brown hair, brown eyes, that goes with everything.'

'Oh, I'm not saying he couldn't pull it off. But look–' she arrays her picks before him, black and blue with paisley, purple and red polka dots and herringbone, all extravagant. 'Doesn't that seem more like him?'

Will looks down at the plain green tie between his fingers, shimmering in the light, unmistakably unadorned. 

'I don't know,' he murmurs, dejected. 

Beverly sighs. She puts the ties back and pats his shoulder. 

'If you'd told me you needed my help with a present for _Hannibal_ , of all people, we could have discussed this beforehand. But if you want my honest opinion, and I hope you do, because otherwise inviting me was a mistake, well, he'll like whatever you choose.'

'What am I supposed to get him then, if not a tie? Not like I can cook something–he'd die on the spot. Art supplies would just be insulting. His only other hobby is picking at my brain, it seems, and I can't afford to gift him that either.'

'How about you forget the ties, and pick a handkerchief instead?'

'How is that any different?'

Beverly rolls her eyes, sighs dramatically. 

'OK come on, let's look at them, I'll educate you a little.'


	5. What Dark Dreams

November 1st ~ _Fanfare_  
_[An introduction with a short and lively sounding of trumpets; or, a lot of chatter showing that people are excited about something]_

* * *

  
The blare of the car horn jerks Will awake, wide eyed and bewildered. Dr Lecter is behind the wheel, gripping it white knuckled, teeth bared, starring daggers through the rain splattered windshield at the car ahead of them.   
Will blinks, and Dr. Lecter is looking at him, chagrined but calm, so _calm_ that Will wonders if the flash of teeth was some dark residue of his dreams clinging to his startled mind. 

'I'm very sorry Will. It seems someone decided to be quite rude, and woke you up.'

Will straightens up, brushing a hand to his face – he's a drooler, and how did he ever manage to fall asleep in Lecter's car? He pats his curls into a semblance of order, and turns away from the psychiatrist's attention. It's not just the car in front of them, the whole dark road is full of flashing rear lights, turn signals going nowhere, and honking drivers. 

'What's going on?'

'I wish I knew,' Dr. Lecter answers, only a tinge of irritation sipping through the words. 

'We must be close to the address Jack gave us. Are they gawking? Is the scene by the roadside?'

Hannibal taps a finger to the screen of his GPS. 

'No,' he says, 'we still have a ways to go.'

'Crash maybe?'

Hannibal flicks through radio stations in search of local news to check on Will's suggestion. Outside the chorus of horns clamours on, the patter of the rain intensifies and the world stretches out forever in strips of gleaming tar. 


	6. Under The Knife

November 3rd ~ _Forte_  
_[A dynamic meaning to play the note "loud or strong". Similarly, one's forte is an area or talent that is their strength]_

* * *

'Hannibal–'

'There is nothing to worry about, I am quite adept at this... Years of experience with a scalpel, after all.'

The knife comes down, inexorable, sinking into the flesh, carving it with precision and ease. Blood pearls along the incisions, running in cold rivulets to the cutting board underneath. 

'You're not going all the way through, I see...'

'Yes, in order to fold the meat into a fan shape, it is easier to have the slices all connected at one end.'

The man is an artist in the kitchen. Will looks on Hannibal's work with silent reverence, following his deft fingers transforming thin peals of tomato flesh into roses, and cold slabs of meat into elegant sculptures. 

'I'm sorry,' he grumbles, 'you trusted me with an easy task and–'

'Don't concern yourself with this, Will. The meat can be used elsewhere.'

'But now you won't have enough for... this.'

'I can always come up with other types of garnish. If anything you forced me to be more creative.'

Will says nothing, mouth pinched, unhappy with himself. Hannibal invited him to come early and help, and here he is, getting in the way, as is customary. 

'I see you sulking,' Hannibal comments, a slight smile tugging at his lips, 'but you must know I did not invite you to be my kitchenhand. I invited you because I enjoy your company.'

'Yeah, I don't think you need one.'

'A kitchenhand? I do, when I cater to a larger gathering.'

'Are six guests a small affair for you then? Impressive.'

'I would hope so. Cooking is one of my forte, and six people is not an uncommon number for a family.'

Will imagines a house wife feeding her children and husband everyday with white asparagus gaspacho, caramelle di pomodoro, and tenderloin canapes... as starters. He rolls the stem of his wine glass between his fingers, watching the ruby liquid swirl up the sides and retreat, leaving weeping rows of alcohol behind it. He pictures being served such wine, and fed such delicacies, every day as he comes home. Hannibal as a housewife is a concept as hilarious as it is mouthwatering.

'Penny for your thoughts?'

Will chokes on his wine.


	7. Petty Mind Games

November 7th ~ _"toot one's own horn"_  
_[to brag or to talk boastfully about oneself]_

* * *

Frederick Chilton has come to brag, and brag he will. All the better if Lecter sulks and ignores him. It's not like he can avoid _hearing_ him. 

'It's going to be a bestseller, all thanks to you.'

Frederick has changed a lot in recent years. Mostly in his tastes and habits. He used to pride himself for his insight into the mind of psychopaths, making serious headway towards their rehabilitation. He felt thrills with every new paper of his, every counter argument to be answered, every acclaim to be gratefully received. He used to think himself smart, like his wards, but infinitely kinder. Sure, he was a proud man, he had cause to be. But he was not vicious, he did not take his pleasure in the pain of others.

'It'll serve you well, and if all goes as planned, I'll get to keep you here, nice and tight, for long years of fruitful collaborations!'

Nowadays though... rubbing salt in the raw wounds of a caged serial killer is its own sweet rush, a heady mead. The fact that he can see a little of himself now reflected in the killers on the other side of the bars does not bother him as much as he thought it would. Or should, perhaps.

'I'll be sure to sign your copy.'

Hannibal turns around, his gaze cool and reptilian, his thin mouth pinched to a cruel line, and still, silent. 

'I'll be going on a tour after the launch,' Frederick goes on, smirking, 'I hope you won't miss me too much while I'm gone.'

Finally, Hannibal breaks.

'You're a failed psychiatrist turned paper pusher, Frederick, there is no instance of this universe where a fully rational being could come to _miss you_.'

Well, it's good to know he's hit a sore spot.


	8. Dog Snatcher

November 8th ~ _Tone Deaf_

* * *

'I have... Ever since she was taken, I've not been able to leave the house at all. It was even a struggle opening the door for you folks.'

'How do you get your groceries, Ms. Vaughn?'

'You've not been walking your dog?'

'Will...'

'No... I'm... I really can't go out.' The woman pats a wet handkerchief to her face, sniffles. 'My neighbour brings me my shopping.'

'But your dog needs to go out!'

' _Will!_ '

Jack grabs him by the elbow and pulls him aside.

'Is this like the Nicholls cat all over again?'

'What? No! This dog needs to be walked. It's obvious it hasn't—look, just let me—Ms. Vaughn, I can take care of your pup while you get better and we find your daughter. I already have seven at home, all rescues, all adorable.' 

'Isn't that too much for you?'

Will laughs, delighted with the idea that there exists a number of dogs that might count as "too much". 

'No. Trust me. What's her name?'

'Lily.' 

'I'll take Lily home, she'll have a huge yard to run into and long walks, and good company. When you feel like you can take care of her you'll reach out to us and I'll bring her back, how does that sound?'


	9. The Bruise At His Throat

November 9th ~ _"Allegro"_  
_[music is played in an upbeat, cheerful, brisk tone. Someone feels this kind of way. What prompted this feeling?]_

Hannibal feels his heart racing from more than simple excitement.   
Oh, the bliss, the ecstasy of having a front row seat to murder done in one's name! Or at least, one's best interests.  
Hannibal watches the man gurgle, a stream of venous blood washing over his face with every shuddering gasp, painting it black. He looks up at Will, panting just as hard over his victim, but making no move to stave off the flow and try to save him.

'He followed me.'

'I know,' Hannibal whispers, so enraptured, he's barely aware of his own words.

'He knew. He must have driven after me, must have been at the scene–all the way from Washington... All to get to you... To get to me.'

Hannibal barely dares to blink. He commits everything to memory, almost forgetting to be a part of the scene himself. 

'Are you alright,' Will asks, tearing his eyes away from the dying man to scan Hannibal's face. There is blood on him, but not his own. All the damage is to his neck. And Will's hands alight there, fumbling nervously with his tie and collar, revealing the red smudges of bruises ere long to come into full bloom.

Behind Will the would-be killer breathes his last.

'Shouldn't we call an ambulance?' Hannibal asks, his voice raspy. 

'They're on their way already,' Will says.

Of course they are–but it doesn't matter, nothing matters now but the leap Will has taken down the road Hannibal has been paving so painstakingly for him all this time.   
It is an effort to appear shaken and miserable. 

'I'm so sorry,' Will goes on, 'this is the second time–it's these pictures of us in Tattle Crime–he knew... I–Look, I don't even know what to say to you, by now. I've taken you in so far down...'

'Will, you need not apologize for the violence of a psychopath. The only thing you are guilty of today is ruining this suit,' Hannibal says with a tentative smile. 'A small price to pay for my own life.'

Will snorts, breaks eye contact, and finally looks at the body on the floor. His expression twists: distaste? Anger? Frustration?   
Siren calls rise up in the distance, joining into a brisk, chaotic warble that, to Hannibal's ears, seems to sing for joy.


	10. Wake Me Up

November 10th ~ _Crescendo_  
_[A dynamic in which the music gradually increases in loudness and intensity; i.e., the sound, the action, or the emotion escalates]_

* * *

Will is wading down the river, one sluggish step at a time: his fishing rod escaped him and flowed away. But with every step the roar of a waterfall grows nearer, the water rises higher, and he feels a wetness, on his face, his neck, the shirt sticking to his back. He looks to his hands, finds them soaked with blood.  
The rumble of the cascade increases, the water surges between his legs, crimson red. 

'I didn't kill him,' Will protests, but he can barely hear his own words. 

'Given extreme enough circumstances, we can all behave like psychopaths.'

'Don't make up excuses for crimes I did not commit, Hannibal.'

There are bars between them, but Hannibal reaches out through them, offering his hand for Will to take.

'You're not alone.'

Will looks around him at the cramped walls of the empty cell, but he can hear them, the roar not of water but of the other prisoners babbling and yelling at each other. No, in this building he is never alone.

'I'm right besides you, Will.'

Still Hannibal's hand reaches out to him and it too, is dark with blood.

_'I want to go home.'_

'This is home Will. This is where you belong.'

Will opens his mouth to protest, but Hannibal has taken his hand away, has turned to leave, and the raving howls of the inmates swallow up his scream.

Will wakes up with that scream still on his lips, in the deafening silence of a hotel room, hair and clothes sticky with sweat, not blood. He cries for his dogs, and for his sanity, and for dreaming of bloody hands offered in mercy. 


	11. Hear Me See Me

November 11th ~ _Sing a different tune_

_[Change one's opinion about or attitude toward someone or something]_

* * *

'I think we can make him change his tune.'

'How?' 

'Lewis Pryce strikes me as a man who has never burned himself, and hence has grown up unafraid of the flame.'

'Extremely poetic, Dr. Lecter, but could you word this in a more concrete manner?'

'He means to give him a scare,' Will says, turning to Jack, 'a very close call, something to make him doubt his safety, make him more circumspect.' 

Hannibal smiles at him, eyes glinting with private mischief. _Here is another man who sings a different tune_ , Will muses. Or maybe he'd been deaf to Lecter's trills and warbles all this time, and only recently became attuned to them. How the others fail to pick up on it still puzzles him.   
He looks around the room, to Alana, Beverly, and Jack, all intelligent people, who know the claims he's lain at Hannibal's feet, yet all happy now to sit together and help Jack decorticate a killer's mind and come up with a suitable honey-pot. Everyone here is working seriously, intent on making the world a better place, and none perceive Hannibal's amusement. 

'How? He's guaranteed to freak out if we bring him in for interrogation,' Beverly says, 'and we don't have the address...'

'We need a set up that allows us to follow him,' Jack says, nodding his agreement, 'if we can make him feel like his New York hideout is compromised, what is the likelihood he'll flee to his cabin?'

'Instead of going home?' Will asks. 'We only need to feed into his paranoia. A few too many police cars around his neighbourhood, and he'll feel the need to lay low and lead us right to his den. He'll not be used to feeling seen.'

He glances back at Hannibal.

Here is one who relishes being seen, and somehow Will can't stop himself from looking.


	12. To Visit Her

November 12th ~ _Bridge_

_[A musical passage that connects one section of a song to another. It can be the connector of paths, scenes, and ideas]_

* * *

There is a corner of his mind always plagued by snow.

It is a torturous journey there, through labyrinthine passages, down echoing stairwells and across bridges arcing over the piranesian landscape of his palace. It is easy to lose one's way, to be distracted by the vaulted ceilings of a chapel, the confines of well used hideouts, or the familiar outlines of his Baltimore office. But if he keeps walking, fingers brushing against all the door-frames of all the halls of his mind, eventually they alight on damp wood, cold and brittle. 

Snowflakes flutter down to catch in his hair like specks of ash falling from the endless funeral pyre of his mind.

It is not really a room. The ceiling is of dirty grey clouds, the floor of mushed snow and mud, the walls stretch around in every direction, out of reach, empty winter forests without comforts and without help. 

This arcane recess of his palace is also the only place where another being lives. He could not walk here if she were dead. He could not walk here with a bellyfull of her in him. So she squeezes his fingers, looks up at him with gleaming eyes full of innocent pleasure and love. 

_It's snowing! Snow! Snow! Look!_

But all Hannibal ever looks at in this room is her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you confused by the use of the term 'piranesian', Giovanni Battista Piranesi was an Italian architect and archaeologist famous for his etchings of Romes and a series called 'carceri' - Prisons. They are nightmarish, infinites spaces that seems to go on forever and fold back in on themselves. 
> 
> [Check them out here](http://gravures.ru/photo/dzhovanni_piranezi/tjurmy/10)
> 
> On a different note, Susanna Clarke, the author of Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell recently published a novel called Piranesi, and I HEARTILY recommend it. It's fantastically written and bewitching and displays amazing authorial efforts on Clarke's part. It's all written as a diary, and the plot thickens slowly but surely and keeps you like a fly in amber all the way. 
> 
> *cough* – Yeah, I'm a bookseller IRL, sorry, can't help myself.


	13. The Experts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for canon appropriate violence descriptions. People discuss a case with some disturbing details. Loosely based on the case of Romand le menteur. 
> 
> Also, yes Zeller and Price are barely distinguishable in dialogue. It's intentional.

November 13th ~ _Unison_

_[coincidence in pitch of sounds or notes, i.e., they sang simultaneously, or they said the same thing at exactly the same time]_

* * *

'So he's the culprit?' Jack asks. 'Not a victim?'

'Yes, definitely,' Price says.

'I guess he's kinda both,' Zeller chimes in. 

'Yeah fine, a victim of his own psychopathy.'

'So what are we looking at?' Jack asks, waving his hand at the bodies in front of them. 

Zeller and Price exchange a look. Jack knows he's going to regret asking them now, when Beverly is still in the lab.

'So from time of death we can ascertain he drove to her parents' place first.'

'Shot them dead. We only have a partial print on the gun, but that's almost irrelevant.'

'Then same bullets on his own parents, three or fours hours later, I can't narrow the time of death any further.'

'Killed the dog too.'

'Yeah he's one sick bastard, glad Will isn't on this case.'

'He would totally lose it.'

'Back on topic gentlemen,' Jack says.

'He drove back home and it's a little hard to tell who dies first then because of the fire.'

'My theory is that he took out his wife first.'

'Yeah, she'd have defended the kids. But maybe she didn't hear the shots.'

'He shot them through the pillows.'

'Right, and from the best body we have, that's five hours later so–'

'He chilled out with them.'

'Didn't send them to school.'

' _Definitely_ killed the wife earlier.'

'So he shot up his entire family, _and_ his in-laws?'

'Oh yeah,' Zeller and Price exclaim in unison. 

'Then he lit up the house,' Zeller goes on.

'With him in the most insulated room,' Price says.

'But the door–'

'Ah that! So Beverly is looking on it just now.'

'We think he padded the door to slow the fire.'

'He wanted to live.'

' _Pam pam_ , kill the fam–'

'Burn them to a crisp, and hopefully–'

'If he's lucky–'

'And he _was_! The firemen get there on time to save him. And they did, and thought he was a poor, poor victim, who'd lost his entire family in a fire.'

'No trace on violence on his body?' Jack ask, massaging the bridge of his nose.

'Not even a burn,' Zeller says, shrugging, 'all the damage is to his lungs, or so the doctor says. My specialty is in dead people you know. But he doesn't have a scratch otherwise.'

'He shot them all from behind. I'm glad we got him alive.'

'The jury is gonna hate him.'

'Yes, right... When is Beverly going to be finished with that analysis?'

The two men shrug. 

'Boss lady is done when she's done,' Price says with a tinge of bitterness in his voice. Zeller snickers next to him, and Jack tries hard not to roll his eyes before leaving the room. _These two..._


	14. Caged Mind

November 14th ~ _The world's smallest violin_

_[A hypothetical instrument that one claims to play in mock sympathy of someone thought to be complaining unnecessarily.]_

* * *

Without fever and without doubts, Will's thoughts have an almost painful clarity. He stares at the ceiling of his cell and looks inward. He parses through days of half remembered feverish haze poisoned by Hannibal. He picks at memories like at the threads of an old jumper, and before too long he is left cold, and the wool run out.   
He starts again, assembling a puzzle, making and unmaking cases, checking his anger with difficulty. Will never knew he could be whiny, but his inner monologue is definitely leaning towards bitterness these days.

There are so many fingers to point and so many people to aim at. 

When the emotions grow too strong, he stands in the stream and casts his bait. He listens to the coursing water and relaxes.   
When the black stag wades through the river to reach him, rasping and snorting, Will starts awake, and the rage builds up again.

He won't give it words. Not now, not like this, when his mind can summon an amused Hannibal, playing a little violin with two fingers and mocking him for being so blind, and him having nothing to say in reply. 


	15. The Business Card

November 15th ~ _Song And Dance_

_[An unnecessary fuss, or a misleading story or statement]_

* * *

Hannibal is glowing with satisfaction. He's at the reception after the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra's latest concert at the Joseph Meyerhoff Symphony Hall, and for once nobody coughed, no phone rang, and the soloist at the piano performed much better than anticipated. This is, after all, not the Berlin Philharmonic.  
He's coasting through a crowd of people of good taste, sipping on a glass of decent champagne (again, allowing for the situation), and he wears at his breast pocket a pigeon blue sharkskin handkerchief.   
A present from Will, for his birthday.   
The handkerchief itself means nothing, he has an unquantifiable number of them. What matters is that Will went and made the effort to enquire after his birth date, and planned for it, and was mightily sneaky about it too.   
Will showed interest. The same Will who snorted an "I don't find you that interesting" to him not so long ago.   
He fidgets with the handkerchief and its texture is pleasant, it is that of _progress_.

'Absolutely mediocre,' a loud voice exclaims, 'I would have been better off driving to Chicago and back, their Orchestra was on for some Rachmaninoff tonight you know.'

'Mark, please, if I can see the soloist from here, I'm pretty sure she can hear you...'

'Ah, you haven't met Mark LaPerche before, have you Lecter,' his conversation partner asks. He's a retired surgeon named Eisner and a regular of these parties. Hannibal appreciates him for his dark humour and his ability to seemingly be one introduction away from anyone in any room. 

'I've not had the pleasure.'

Eisner scoffs. 

'You're not missing out. He's a composer, fresh in town, just scored his first job doing a soundtrack for some flick. It's the second time I see him, and let me tell you I can't wait for him to be a success in _Hollywood_.'

'Maybe hearing about mediocrity will open their eyes Jane? They could all benefit from overhearing me,' LaPerche is going on in the background. 

Always. There is always one. And so Hannibal sighs, and takes the first step of the hunt.

'Care to introduce me, Eisner?'

'Really?' The man asks, but he's already walking them towards LaPerche and his distressed partner. Eisner relishes drama, and he knows by now that quite a few annoying people stopped coming to the receptions or concerts after a particularly scathing encounter with Hannibal Lecter. 

LaPerche, a gaunt man in his mid-thirties, makes a face as they're being introduced. When Eisner is done, he turns a derisive eye to Hannibal.

'Did you enjoy the concert tonight, Dr. Lecter?'

'Why yes. I think Miss Anderson outdid herself at the piano.'

'Really?' LaPerche sneers– _actually sneers_ –'I suppose she is a lucky woman, to find such support in fine people like you each time she takes a stab at Ravel.'

'Mark–'

'Your claims to good taste are impressive, Mr. LaPerche. I must ask, what is your profession? Are you perhaps a pianist yourself?'

'I'm a composer, recently brought on to work on the next Rodrigo Martin film.'

'Indeed,' Hannibal says sounding as pleasantly surprised as possible. 'May I ask then, for your business card?'


	16. In Hypnos' Arms

November 16th ~ _Harmony_

_[A simultaneous combination of notes that is pleasing to the ear. Similarly, an agreement, or an internal calm]_

* * *

Hannibal lies down in bed and prepares to surrender to Hypnos the thing he cherishes above all else: _control_.

He is not at ease with his dreams. In all his years he has not mastered them, no matter how much he tried, and still he refuses to censure his own mind with the crude chemicals he routinely prescribes to others. 

In his waking hours, his desires are goals to work toward, and regret a foreign concept well studied and rarely experienced. Things seldom happen to Hannibal: he allows them to unfold, to affect him. _He_ happens to the world.

But at night, sometimes, the world lashes back.

One night–  
He opens the door of his study and finds the waiting room empty. He checks his appointment book, where there should be a line saying _14:30 Will Graham_ , but all the pages are blank. He pulls out his phone, but the contacts go from Gower to Granton. He raises his hand to his cheek, finds nothing there. He rolls up his sleeves and his arms too are smooth, unmarred by any blade.

Another night–  
Mischa cries, begs for food. He says there is nothing, the soldiers ate everything. But she's too young, she doesn't understand _"nothing"_. So he carves one of the soldier's thighs and feeds her, raw little strips that disappear down her gaping mouth, like a baby bird's, and stain her lips as red as when she stuffed herself with fistfuls of ligonberries last summer– _just_ _last summer_ –when food grew on trees. 

Some other–  
He sits on the bench of the accused. A lawyer asks him questions: _did you kill him? Did you eat her? Did you falsify this evidence?_  
He opens his mouth and no sounds come out. He turns to his lawyer and a dead man looks back, glassy eyed, smirking, _who's the hopping rabbit now?_

Tonight–  
Morpheus brings him Will Graham, suntanned, smiling. Icelus summons up one of his dogs, which makes Will brighten even further, and things could not be sweeter. But the third divine brother, Phantasus, puts the knife in Hannibal's hand. Except Hannibal would never strike _there_ , he would not kill, no, not Will–   
And when the dog jumps to tear his throat, the treacherous knife is gone.

He jerks awake, panting, a clammy hand at his throat. His consciousness claws power back, suppressing the nightmare. His waking dreams goals once again, concrete and sensible, achievable. Hannibal calms his breath and his emotions. He lies back down, curling against the comforting presence in his bed.


	17. Corsican Battle

November 17 ~ _Shuffle_

_[Rearrangement of tracks in a random order, or, a confused jumble]_

* * *

'Is it always like this, you stalk people out for hour after boring hour?'

'It is not very different from police work, I would imagine.'

'I wouldn't know, I'm not police.'

'Do you know how to play Corsican Battle?'

Will looks at Hannibal, confused. He isn't sure if that's a reference to murder or to the deck of cards flying between his dextrous hands. 

'I've never heard of it,' he says, keeping it safe. 

'You might know it under another name. That is what my classmates called it in France.'

Will perks up. Hannibal's past is a rare and deeply veiled topic. He knows better than to prod directly.

'You might know it as Egyptian War, or Taxes.'

'I, err- I suspect you might have been a more social kid than I was.'

Hannibal's eyes glimmer with amusement, deep within the harsh shadows cast by the car's overhead lamp. His long fingers still shuffle the cards, bending and recombining. 

'I can teach you the rules, they are simple and besides,' he says, starring intently into Will's eyes, 'you're social enough with me.'

Will snaps his eyes away, almost recoiling from the words, and is saved by their target finally stepping out of his home. 

'I think the lesson will have to wait,' Hannibal says, and Will cannot tell if the disappointment in his voice is genuine or more teasing.


	18. Truth Has An Ugly Face

November 18th ~ _The jig is up_

_[The scheme has been revealed! The deception has been foiled!]_

* * *

Serial killers aren't dignified people. They don't surrender to police with their chin up and their chest puffed out. They run and hide as much as they taunt and beg to be found. Once caught, the bravado goes right out of them.

The Chesapeake reaper however, is not a serial killer. He has killed many people, yes. Lacks any form of empathy and regret, most certainly. But there end the similarities. The Chesapeake reaper would not be a crying, terrified mess, unwilling to use his gun to save his own skin. The Chesapeake reaper would not run like a crippled duck through the snow.

Jack Crawford has rarely felt more disgusted with life than in this moment, pointing a gun at a flailing Chilton.  
Lifting the veil and finding Will there, waiting, hand open to him, whispering _Hannibal_.

He has tried so hard to believe in Chilton's guilt. It makes so much sense, it ticks so many boxes, he has a _perfect_ background... 

Chilton, innocent, and realising too how blinded he was, also came to Will, because _he_ knows, _he_ would understand.  
Two men seemingly doing the reaper's work, one framed, both accusing the only other man with the perfect background. 

And Jack's friend.


	19. Fly In Amber

November 19th ~ _Instrumental_

_[A song without singing or lyrics. Write without dialogue and focus on sound]_

* * *

Will Graham is lost in thoughts, and Hannibal wonders what he sees, deep in the amber depth of the glass of brandy he is lazily swirling between his fingers.   
He does not ask.  
He has been sketching Will for a while, and has not met any resistance beyond a pointed glare early on. He is afraid that speaking up might break the spell that has fallen over them. Will seems to almost bask in the attention now, flaunting his bandaged hand, glancing at Hannibal from behind his curls grown so long. Coyness with a darker lining.  
The only sounds are the graphite running against the paper and Will's occasional sips. Hannibal is careful not to make any noises of his own, willing himself to disappear from the scene so he can crystallise it perfectly, and enshrine it among his most cherished memories.   
Ever since Will killed of his own accord, the silence between them has become _companionable_. They know where they stand, without posturing and without lies.  
Hannibal knows Will is not yet fully formed. Like a wet imago fresh out of its pupa, he has not yet taken his final form. Things might yet change, more backstabbings might happen, more pushing and pulling.  
He doesn't mind.

He himself is not sure he'll manage to resist some of his more insatiable impulses.


	20. Trip to the butcher

November 20th ~ _Nocturnes_

_[a piece, typically for solo piano, that evokes the moods and images of night time. Write a scene that is set long after the sun has gone down]_

* * *

John Warton wakes up with an atrocious, pounding headache. He groans, puts his hands to his temples, and away again with a yelp. They're painful– and wet– He tries to open his eyes, to look around, to remember...

'Finally awake Mr. Warton? Better late than never.'

John rolls, his head still pounding, and squints in search of the speaker. 

'Wh-where am I, who is this?'

'You are in the middle of nowhere, Mr. Warton, and this is your reckoning, I suppose.'

'What?'

He sees the speaker, finally. He is oddly dressed, in khakis and boots, a dark sleeveless jacket over a fancy shirt with sleeves rolled up scarred forearms. 

'Do I know you?' He asks, still confused. The face of the man is plain, the room's single lightbulb makes it look harsh, the outline of his skull pronounced. He seems in his forties, and looks foreign, though maybe that's just the accent making him think that.

'I don't suppose you were polite enough to pay attention when you had the opportunity, no.'

John gapes, incredulous. _Who_ is this guy? What is he doing here? Where is here? There are no windows in sight, though he does not yet dare to turn around. 

'You know my name,' he says, trying to sound reasonable and even agreeable. Nasty ideas are surfacing in his aching mind now, and his breath comes faster. 'May I know yours?'

The man looks at him, expressionless.

'No, I don't believe you need it. You've been quite rude, Mr. Warton. Not to me, not directly. But you put my friend Will Graham in a very delicate situation. At first–'

'Will Graham?! Is he here? Can I–'

'As I said,' the man cuts him off, a warning in his voice, 'I didn't mind it, at first. But you seem to have hit a sore spot. Will has been despondent ever since.'

'I-I'm sorry. Really! I know I said some things that– If you'll just let me, I'll make a serious, proper apology.'

'That you will. In order to perk him up, I plan on throwing a diner.'

John looks around, perplexed. A diner invitation? Now? Here? He looks down then, at his hand, and realises they are wet with darkening blood. His eyes widden, fingers flickering back to his temple.

'You shall have a head start. I imagine your head still aches, and so I'll give you a decent one. This way, if you please.'

'What head start,' John asks, shaking. The man has gone to open the door to a dark hallway. 

'Come,' he says, in a voice brooking no denial.

John stands, holding on for a moment, dizzy. A table. He is holding on to the table on which he'd been laid out...  
The man walks before him down the gloomy hallway and finally opens another door, leading into pure, undiluted darkness.

'I'm afraid the moon is out,' the man says, smiling at him. 

The starlight slowly reveals the spindly outlines of trees in the night. There are no city lights in sight, no buildings, and no road. John feels a sob build in his throat. His worst fears crystallise. This is a hunting cabin.

'You're going to kill me...' He whispers to the man standing next to him in the doorway.

'I am confident enough in my own skills that I can promise you this: if you manage to escape, I shall let you live.'

'Has– Has anyone escaped you so far?'

The man stares at him, face unreadable, eyes glimmering like slivers of the moonless sky.

'As I said. I'm confident in my skills.'


	21. A Tease

November 21st ~ _Call and response_

_[A style of singing in which a melody sung by one singer is responded to or echoed by one or more singers]_

* * *

'You betrayed me, again!'

Hannibal cocks his head, wondering what brought on this particular instance of moodiness in Will Graham. 

'As I recall, I was only sending the ball back in your court.'

'You're behind everything, from the first man to die by my hands to—'

'Will... I never pulled the trigger for you.'

'Oh no, sometimes you pulled it for yourself and then convinced me I did it, other times only convinced others.'

'I might have started this game, but you have joined in eagerly, and turned out a fine player.'

Hannibal knows at a glance that he is dying in Will's mind, dying by his hands, again and again, in various manners. Really, Will would probably tone the murderous intent down if he knew how exciting Hannibal finds it.

So he smiles at him instead.


	22. Sliced And Framed

November 22nd ~ _Sharp_

_[Higher in pitch; Having a thin, cutting edge or fine point; Having a clever or astute quality]_

* * *

It hurts like a million needles to see her, like a thousand slices of the knife, like a flaying. His agent dead, the wrong one in jail, and all the while a high pitched whining reverberates within his mind, the shriek of the murderer's circular saw biting through his own frozen heart.

Jack feels his eyes burn, sees the outline of Beverly Katz blur, and registers: _I am crying._

His emotions parade in front of him in a sinister caper, arm in arm, indistinguishable. Shame, anger and bitterness, wordless horror, a desire to hunt and kill, cold misery, all shaken and stirred into the cocktail of his tears. 

The detached observer in him looks back at Beverly and notices some small details, ricocheting over the hurt: her blood was drained, her hair was cleaned before the framing, her kidneys are missing.   
Someone is out there having devilled FBI kidneys and here... and here... in the observatory, Jack _observes_ what was put on display for him once again. 


	23. Cannibal Puns

November 23rd ~ _Face the music_

_[Be confronted with the unpleasant consequences of one's actions]_

* * *

She hears the thuds early, which is why she walks into the room with her gun held before her, the cold steel in her grasp a cruel reminder that she is awake, that the sight of Hannibal, knives in each hand, drenched in blood, flying against his pantry door, is not, in fact, a nightmare.   
She calls out his name, hope still clinging on desperately, as if an excuse could be made for such a spectacle. 

When he looks back, hope falters and dies.

'Where is Jack,' she whispers.

'In the pantry,' he whispers back, in the conspiratorial tone of a shared joke.

He smiles thinly at her shock. The first real smile she's seen from him, a frightened little voice comments from the back of her mind. The smile of the thing under the person suit. The smile of the reaper. The smile Will Graham has been returning for all the months he's known.   
He told everyone, and she wouldn't listen. Jack believed, and she raged at him. She took a side, and chose wrong. She thought she was walking in the light, far above the misguided, suspicious men of the FBI, yet crashed into an unseen wall.   
Now here she stands, dizzy, yelling at the advancing man–thing–monster–her _lover_.

'In your defence, I worked very hard to blind you.' He says. 

But it is no balm on her wounds, no reason to take her finger off the trigger. If he wants her to turn away, then she has to face him.


	24. A Round of Applause

November 24th ~ _A Capella_

_[Choral music with no instruments. Harmonies come from voices, and percussion comes from hand claps or beat boxing]_

* * *

'Irony can have a fine flavour. After all, you used to say you would not find me interesting.'

'And you made sure I could not afford to do that, didn't you.'

'You were like the purest block of marble. You awoke the sculptor in my heart.'

'Don't you think it'd be fairer to call it clay modelling?'

'That would imply a lot more control than I actually had. I would rather call the artist in me Pygmalion.'

'Ah, and thus the king fell in love with his work, a nameless being carved out of ivory.'

'The most beautiful he would ever shape. But Michelangelo argued that inspired sculptors do not carve out their creations, and instead free them from the stone they are encased in.'

'You'll have to lend me your copy of Metamorphoses.'

'It is heavily thumbed and annotated.'

'As heavily thumbed as I am? You were sometimes a little _maladroit_ with your chisel.'

'Your scars suit you, Will.'

'And you deserve yours.'

The audience claps then and the lights go out. Will smiles to Hannibal in the penumbra of their private opera box, an eyebrow cocked to claim the applause for his argument. Light returns to the stage bellow as the actors come out to collect their reward of fame.

'I would not have you any other way, Will,' Hannibal says, smiling back, letting his emotions play on his face. 'If you think I deserve them, then I shall wear them ever with pride.'

'You know, people in less... complicated relationships sometimes share rings, or wear identical outfits. Or key-chains. Baubles.'

'Mementos.'

'Need we make ours so painful?'

'No one will mar your skin any more Will, not unless you allow them to. Or allow me.'


	25. Recess of the Soul

November 25th ~ _Obbligato_

_[Essential to the piece of music and should not be omitted in performance]_

* * *

'These are getting harder on you.'

Will chuckles, a humourless sound that isn't pleasing to Hannibal's ears.

'Yes, it's almost like there is a contest going around the country. Serial killers anonymous goading its members to reach for new heights of creativity.'

Hannibal can hear the jaded tones in his voice as well as see the listlessness in his face. Will is losing his taste for the job. An erosion of his sympathy, if not his empathy. 

'Have you considered a holiday?' 

'Have you talked to Jack at all, in recent months?' Will shoots back.

'Maybe Jack could be more amenable to giving you some time off if I were to write him a note about your mental state.'

'What do you call the reverse of a rubber stamp? Actually, don't answer that. I thought you weren't my psychiatrist, Dr. Lecter. I thought we were friends.'

'Cynicism doesn't suit you Will. Bitterness is an enemy of every good character.'

'Is that what you plan to write on your report to Jack? "Will has grown too _embittered_ to work, let him spend a week in Hawaii"?'

'I pictured you more as a "mountain cabin by the river" sort of man.'

Will sighs, bone-weary, and looks back at Hannibal in that piercing way of his.

'I'm afraid sometimes,' he whispers, 'that if I got that cabin in the mountain... I would not come back down from it, for anyone, or anything.'


	26. Carthaginian Apple

November 26th ~ _Strike a chord_

_[Affect or stir someone's emotions]_

* * *

Hannibal, despite his best efforts, remains a mortal man, and as prone to colds as anyone. He is convinced that Franklyn is the culprit, him and his accursed tissues. Only his aversion to wasting stills his hand: no matter how rude Franklyn can be, there is no part of him that could whet Hannibal's appetite. Though maybe the lack of hunger is a side effect of the cold...  
He stands in his kitchen, muscles aching, robe tightly wound around him, mixing honey in steeped ginger tea. He squeezes some lemon juice in, adds a dash of dark whisky, a spoonful of pomegranate seeds, a slice of orange, and a branch of fresh thyme.   
A cold is no excuse for fixing himself a substandard drink, and he hasn't needed a hot toddy that badly in years. In the Lecter household, there is no one but Hannibal to make the _"chicken soup"_ , he thinks to himself with a wry smile. As if those memories of Will summoned the man himself, his phone rings.

'Hello Will,' he says in as clear a voice as possible. 

'Dr. Lecter.'

Hannibal freezes in the middle of his kitchen, glass in hand, and frowns down at his phone. It says _Will Graham_ , and shows an image of the man, smiling brightly as his latest (at the time) adopted stray licks his face. 

'Jack, that is a surprise.'

'Yes I suppose so. I tried to call your office but you did not respond.'

'I am taking the day off. The common cold is not what my patients are looking for in their consultations with me.'

'Ah, I sympathise–'

Jack's voice disappears into the high whine of an ambulance.

'I'm sorry, I did not get that.'

'I said I'm at the hospital,' Jack repeats, 'can you come? It's Will.'

Hannibal's grip on his glass wavers, and it tumbles down, claimed by gravity. It shatters at his feet, pomegranate seeds looking like drops of solid blood, obstinately refusing to dissolve into the cooling pool of hot toddy–like scattered chunks of flesh.

'Dr. Lecter? Are you alright?'

Hannibal does not believe in omens. He is not a superstitious man, never was. But the cups he shatters, he likes to let go of himself. 

'Is _Will_ alright?'


	27. The Name on the Lips of the Dead

November 27th ~ _Mute_

_[A device used to muffle the tone and volume of an instrument]_

* * *

Will has been to a cemetery in Europe once, and the tombstones there had been surrounded by gravel. He hadn't seen the point, until today, when his steps on the grass are as silent as if he were himself a shade.  
But would his company be welcome here? If he were able to reach down, would Abigail Hobbs even want to take his hand, to step out of her resting place and talk with him? Would she listen to his words, his excuses, his pleas?   
_We were both used_ , he would say.   
_But how much of it did you do out of love_ , she might ask.   
_More than you ever did._

Abigail remains silent, maybe because she was betrayed twice over, because in the end, she was only loved as a gift to another, and not for herself. Maybe she remains silent because she is a year dead, forever a punishment dealt by Hannibal's lovelorn hands.


	28. The Hazy Line Between Us

November 28th ~ _Pianissimo_

_[Dynamic instruction in music that tells musicians to play very softly or quieter]_

* * *

'Is this Lithuanian?' Will asks.

Hannibal doesn't stop his soft singing, but smiles at him and nods. Will lets the lilting song lull him. He has not felt this free since...   
He abandons the thought, turns his attention to the countryside outside the window, shifting from fields to seaside woodland. He does not ask where they are going.   
The alien refrain comes back, and Hannibal hums. Will closes his eyes. He's happy, he realises belatedly. He wishes the car would drive forever.

'It is a song about following the devil down the wrong road,' Hannibal says at last, 'though I have adapted it to a more fitting tune than the original.'

'I see your sense of humour has not changed.'

'Oh, it has evolved, as you'd expect after years of captivity with an appreciative audience.'

Will says nothing. He feels no reproach from Hannibal. They both know all the quips and jabs have been said, all the hurt done.  
They're both free now, and on the hunt.

It was easier to tell where he ended, and Hannibal began, back when one was playing husband and the other imprisoned. But it had been a tedious exercise, constantly prodding at the blurred edges of his self, gathering back the scattered tendrils of his mind, keeping away from the glass wall that seemed to sit like a fence at the back of his skull. 

'We are almost there.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only two stories left and we're done! Dang! I'm going to miss writing these!
> 
> If anyone is curious about my writing process, here are [my notes](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1CFqrpNENU07R7O96p3qb3ZZXIfLSWD9QAIM1IN3wI4o/edit?usp=sharing), copy-pasted into a google docs file. For once I worked pretty linearly, so you can see all the tidbits I wrote and rewrote, before making bigger chunks. Did this within an hour this morning before work.


	29. The Song You Wrote For Me

November 29th ~ _End on a high note_

_[To finish, complete, or leave (something) at a successful, impressive, or climactic point]_

* * *

The melody that lures him out of his sleep is sweet and simple, but shakily played. Notes string themselves awkwardly, sometimes too soft, sometimes too hard. Mistakes are followed by the harsher strokes of a vexed musician wanting to prove themselves.  
It's a waltz, he realises.   
With a pained groan he rolls off the bed and comes up on shaky legs. He wraps himself in the bedsheet and makes his way towards the music, vaguely wondering if he looks like a debutante in a bright white dress, on a quest for her dancing partner. He tiptoes into the living room and approaches the man trying his best at the old, badly tuned piano. He can tell from the shift of his shoulder that he's heard him, so he goes to stand right behind him. He enjoys the heat of him against his belly and chest and leans in. He watches the scarred hands make their way through the refrain. Soon, he hums along.   
Three bright notes wrap up the song in a hopeful tone.

'You're doing so much better,' he says.

'I've never known you to be a flatterer, Will.'

He sighs. It still hurts to smile, so instead he rests a hand on Hannibal's shoulder, a light, encouraging touch. A reminder to both of them that they are still alive.

'You're so hard on yourself. You were shot. We'll both take time. Still, you're getting better all the time, and you ended it on a high note.'

'We both did.'

Will frowns down at him, knowing he isn't speaking about music any more.

'It's not an ending... It's a new beginning.'

Hannibal gives him a mischievous smile.

'What should I play next then?'


	30. After the Fall

November 30th ~ _Encore_

_[A repeated or additional performance of an item at the end of a concert, as called for by an audience; Again!]_

* * *

When Alana Bloom reaches her Parisian hotel, the first thing she does is to call Margot. She will call every morning and every evening during her stay. Some might think it looks like dotting, but most of the time the calls are brief and businesslike. So they might think this is jealousy at play, women unable to trust their partner, incessantly checking on each other. It is, of course, a completely different brand of paranoia that keeps them in such close contact.

Few people would get it.

Fewer still, if names were to be voiced. _You're afraid of ghosts_ , they would say.

Alana walks the busy, stinking streets of central Paris, jostled by gawking tourists and disgruntled locals. She feels like tempting fate when she steps into the Louvre. Feels like she's borrowing time when she writes on the back of a postcard addressed to Jack.   
_Look, it's fine to go. I'm fine, world is a big place..._ Is what the card is saying, if not the words penned on it. 

Jack thinks they're alive and doing well. He wanted to find bodies. _Depending on the tide when they fell, you'll not find any_ , had said the maritime recovery crew.

She sits by the banks of the Seine, watching bateaux mouches criss-crossing the green waters and pictures bodies rising up to the surface, summoned there by the anxiety that has gripped her since the email came and she chose to accept, to leave the relative safety of her home and country, and come to this convention.

It has been five years since the Fall, as they call it. _Hannibal would never be so late in paying a visit,_ Bedelia claims. _I'll catch them if it's the last thing I ever do_ , Jack says. Chilton has joined the crowded ranks of the dead, but she knows he'd have understood. 

She takes a taxi to the Paris convention centre, puts on her lanyard, pats nervously at her braided, dyed hair–her one true concession to fear–and dives into the throng.   
People shake her hand, compliment her on her work, talk of papers or research, of upcoming projects and events, and after a while her anxiety subsides. She visits the various booths, sits on a couple of talks, mindful of the time. She rejoins a handful of international colleagues for her own talk, and takes her seat between the German and Japanese psychiatrists. People start to trickle in, slowly filling in the room. Lights dim, a hush settles. The French mediator for the event takes up the mic. Alana understands too little to try and follow; she lets her gaze wander the assembly.

And they're right there. Because _of course_ they are. 

Hannibal's hair has turned silvery, and his chin sports white stubble. Will's curls are gone, and his clean shaven face reveals all the dimples of his smile to her. They look healthy. Will has a scar on his face, Hannibal has a hand on his knee. In unison, they give her a little wave.

The horror of the moment is too great for her to react. She's been running down that road for so many years, she knew the car was coming, somewhere up ahead, yet she's still a doe in headlights. She smiles back stupidly.

'Dr. Bloom?'

She snaps around, startled.

'Sorry, what was that?'

'Je le répète encore une fois, votre travail est vital,' the man says, and then, 'I'll say it again, your work is essential, _vital_? That's a word in English too, yes?'  


She's asked to start. She looks down at her notes and wonders. Is her work, so kindly described as vital, the last thing she wants to present to the world? Was it a such a valuable contribution, worth flying down here, into the jaws of fate? If she begs, will they leave her son live? And maybe, just maybe, has Will changed Hannibal enough that they could reminisce about the good old day over a glass of wine, and let her go, like a terrified animal freed from a barbed wire fence, stumbling back into the world after a dizzyingly close brush with death? Will they–

_ 'Dr. Bloom?' _

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much dear readers for sticking with me on this epic daily quest. I never knew I had this in me, and I've learnt a lot through this month. Including my need to rewatch the entire show start to finish. I might do more one shots in the future, but I'm going to retreat to my Star Wars fics for now.  
> Any feedback is very welcome! Feel free to drop a comment to let me know what you think, and if there is anything I can do better in the future. 
> 
> Thanks a lot to the crazy ones who subbed for a daily email for this, you're wild and appreciated!  
> Thanks as well to all the fannibals who left me kudos and led me to discover some truly top tier Hannibal fics in their bookmarks.  
> And finally big thank you to justheretoreadhannibalfics who was my first Hannibal fic I read on AO3, and one of the best for Hannibal dialogue, ever. You inspired me to give this a shot and I owe you lots. I hope you find stories to like among this ficlet collections, I'm gifting them to you! <3
> 
> See you all around for season 4. Bryan if you read this then kiss yourself for me. 
> 
> EDIT : We did it guys, I couldn't thank you enough, This fic made it to 666 hits and 66 kudos. I love you all.  
> 


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